


Raven Song

by crzy_wrtr10



Series: Special Investigations and Tactical Response Unit AU [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Humor, Aramis Whump, Author regrets nothing, BROT3, Bedside Vigils, Beta Branch Big Bang, Big Bang Challenge, Bodily Fluids, Constance is a badass, Crying, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Episode references, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Healing, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, Law Enforcement Inaccuracies, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Papa Bear Treville, Physical hurt/comfort, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SITRU AU, Sadness, Sharing a Bed, Stealth Crossover, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Weapons, Whump, author is crazy, idek, woobie-eyed Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Athos gave him the finger and drank in the sight of Aramis laughing, head kicked back and hair in total disarray. The tightness in his chest returned twofold as the vans were shut and finally pulled from the Garrison parking lot. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>It was just a week. Seven days. Not long at all.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But if that was the case then why did Athos feel like he’d never see Aramis again?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A training exercise codenamed SAVOY goes horribly wrong. Aramis tumbles down the rabbit hole, and Athos and Porthos do their best to get him back up into the sunshine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raven Song

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost I have to thank [red_b_rackham](http://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/pseuds/red_b_rackham) for being an awesome beta to this fic. This would be a hot mess without her and the rest of the lovelies over at [The Beta Branch](http://thebetabranch.prophpbb.com/). Also a big thank you to TBB for organizing their first Big Bang Challenge (with a 15,000 word minimum). Ya'll are awesome, I cannot say it enough. Especially Bess, who also did the art pieces for this fic. They're absolutely lovely and awesome, and I'm just giddy, at this point. If you love them as much as I do, _please go tell her!_ (Also, sorry if they're huge. But yay, I figured out how to put them _in_ the fic.)
> 
>  
> 
> The Savoy fic. I hope none of you are partial to your feels. 
> 
> I find you all fabulous, as always.  
>  
> 
> **WARNING: Violence, medical procedures, bodily fluids, depictions of vomiting, blood and gore, and things not for the squeamish in nature**

His gut told him something wasn’t right.

It was a clear, crisp day, cold enough to hint at the winter to come yet warm enough for just long sleeves and light jackets. It would, of course, be colder in the woods – there was the possibility of snow in the higher elevations – but they had prepared for that. 

They being twenty-two Musketeers about to spend a week playing capture the flag and calling it training. And there, getting ready to be in the thick of it with Marsac, was Aramis.

Athos’s breakfast churned in his belly.

Aramis finished stuffing his duffel in the back of the van and wandered over to Athos and Porthos, hands in his pockets. 

“You sure about this?” Porthos asked.

Sweet relief eased the burn in Athos’s chest. Maybe Porthos was having the same feeling. 

“About what? This?” Aramis motioned to the Musketeers starting to load up. “Or that?” He jerked his chin subtly in Marsac’s direction.

“That.”

He shrugged, glancing between Porthos and Athos. “It’s fine. We’re good about it now. We’re friends.”

Athos felt as though he’d missed something fairly monumental. Porthos, on the other hand, nodded sagely. 

“I’m sure,” Aramis said. “We’ll be fine.” He turned to Athos, a wide smile on his face. “A week without me chattering like a magpie.”

“Or stealing my paper clips,” Athos added dryly.

“They’re Treville’s, if you want to get technical,” he pointed out. “ _You_ don’t have a desk.”

“He’d never find it if he did,” Porthos muttered.

“Anyway.” Athos stifled the urge to roll his eyes. These two would drive a Saint to sin. “You’re – you’ve got everything?”

Aramis grinned. “Yes, mom.”

He did roll his eyes at that, and his fingers twitched with the need to hug the younger man. He didn’t; Aramis would know something was wrong and there was no way Athos could tell him.

_Don’t go, I have a bad feeling about this. Don’t know what about, but don’t go. Please._

Yeah, that would go over _really_ well.

“Well, have fun,” Porthos said, engulfing Aramis in a bear hug.

“It’s training, remember? Not fun.” He turned to Athos, arms held out wide. “You’ll miss me.”

 _Of course. And I won’t breathe right until you’re back again._ “Of course not. Chatterbox.” Still, he moved into Aramis’s arms and squeezed him hard.

“Grumpy old man,” Aramis muttered when they separated. 

“Klepto.”

“Tight ass.”

Athos gave him the finger and drank in the sight of Aramis laughing, head kicked back and hair in total disarray. The tightness in his chest returned twofold as the vans were shut and finally pulled from the Garrison parking lot. 

It was just a week. Seven days. Not long at all.

But if that was the case then why did Athos feel like he’d never see Aramis again?

 

Middle of the night phone calls rarely yielded happy news. Athos had found out his brother had been murdered shortly after midnight that fateful summer day, and when his cell rang well after business hours he knew it wasn’t good.

It was the automated system calling him to the Garrison.

He broke more traffic laws than he followed in getting there, and took the stairs to their floor rather than wait for the elevator. The rest of the Musketeers, barring those camping in the woods, were already there, and Treville surveyed his troops grimly. Athos’s heart pounded hard in his chest.

“There’s been an incident,” the captain said. “At the training exercise SAVOY. They were attacked.”

The room hardly dared to breathe; Athos was aware he’d begun to shake but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Early reports indicate there are no survivors. We will do our own investigation. Teams one through five will go onsite. Six through nine will stay here and begin gathering intel on the home front.” Treville paused, swallowing audibly. “We have work to do, gentlemen. Let’s bring our boys home.”

Athos very nearly protested Team Ten hadn’t been assigned when he realized _all_ of Team Ten was at the training exercise with Marius. And Dom. Philippe, Louis, Jean, Marsac, Aramis – 

Aramis.

Only Porthos’s quick arm around his waist kept him from kissing the floor. The bigger man hauled him toward the stairs, and by the time they reached the parking lot Athos had regained his composure. Or at least enough of it to realize Porthos hadn’t said a word and had the same set to his jaw he did when he and Aramis made ridiculous bets. 

“Porthos – “

“No,” he growled. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Fine.” Athos could concede that. “But I’m driving.”

Porthos snorted. “Only if you promise not to drive like a geriatric.”

 _Old man._ He could hear Aramis’s teasing voice in his head. 

“Hang onto your ass, princess.” Athos slammed his door shut and, realizing he was leading this rather morbid entourage, proceeded to burn rubber out of the parking lot. 

God help anyone stupid enough to get between him and his brothers-in-arms.

 

It was a half mile trek from the parking area to their campsite through dense forest. The dusting of snow muffled their footsteps, and the pre-dawn sky was light enough for them to see by without stumbling into pine trees. 

Not that it mattered – they heard them before they saw them: ravens come to feast on the newly dead.

Athos cleared the last few trees framing the small clearing and came to a halt, Porthos beside him. 

There were bodies everywhere. Some lay where they had fallen trying to defend themselves and their friends. Others had been slaughtered in their sleep.

He opened his mouth to start issuing orders and had to close it again, swallowing thickly. 

“Let’s get them ready to take home,” he finally said softly.

Soon enough there were neat rows of bodies, some covered in coats, others in the Musketeer blue boat cloak they had as part of their dress uniform. It was warm, and would provide an extra layer. It would have also made staying hidden a little more difficult during their training. 

Aramis was rather fond of his boat cloak. It was one of the first things he’d been presented with when he’d come off his probationary period along with his badge, shield, and leather spaulder. 

Hell, Aramis even loved the damn spaulder. He’d loved – 

_He_ loved.

Jesus above, Athos couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t bury another little brother. Not like he’d buried Thomas. 

Out of his peripheral vision he saw Porthos straighten. The big man’s lips moved as he counted the bodies of their fallen Musketeers, two neat lines of ten. 

“Aramis,” Athos murmured, meeting Porthos’s eyes across the demolished camp.

“He’s not here,” Porthos called. “Athos, he’s – he’s missing.”

Athos momentarily forgot how to breathe.

“Aramis!” he yelled. “Aramis!”

He blinked, trying to look at the carnage around him with fresh eyes. Where would – of course. While Aramis had the bearing of a social butterfly – and the attention span of a gnat on occasion – he also enjoyed his privacy. He would have been on the edge. 

There.

He found his own plaid flannel shirt sticking out from the ruin of a tent. Aramis had borrowed it one of the previous times he’d been at Athos’s and had yet to return it. 

Now it provided Athos a starting point.

Porthos was still calling Aramis’s name, and the nasty part of Athos’s mind informed him that Aramis would have answered already if he could. Just because he was missing didn’t also mean he wasn’t dead.

It was, ultimately, Athos who found him, propped against a tree with blood coating the side of his face and neck. He was still, so pale he was blue, and Athos feared he’d found another dead body. 

“Porthos! Porthos, he’s here!” The sound of his own voice galvanized him into action and he dropped to his knees by Aramis. His fingers shook as he fit them to the cold skin of his neck. He was vaguely aware of Porthos behind him, hardly daring to breathe, and the unnerving silence around them as they all waited – 

A beat. Then another. Sluggish but there.

Athos turned wide, wet eyes on Porthos. “He’s alive.” He swallowed hard. “He needs a hospital.”

“It’ll take too long for an ambulance to get here.” Porthos reached out and carefully gathered Aramis in his arms. He started through the crowd of stunned Musketeers, Athos following sedately behind him. 

Twenty bodies. Aramis made twenty-one.

Where was Marsac?

His boot encountered something foreign to the forest. Crouching, he twitched away the dusting of snow to find a credentials holder. Inside was Marsac’s badge and shield, the etched fleur-de-lis stained with blood. 

Athos wrapped that in the tattered remains of the boat cloak used to hastily stem the flow of blood from Aramis’s head wound, and followed in Porthos’s tracks. 

He didn’t look back. 

 

The ride back to Quebec City was hell. Porthos sat in the back with an unresponsive Aramis. No matter what he did he couldn’t get Aramis to show any sign of life other than breathing. 

Athos, in the driver’s seat with the heater on full bore, was roasting. Aramis was still borderline blue, and Porthos’s words had taken on a hysteric edge before he’d dissolved into a murmured litany of _Please, Aramis. Please stay. Stay with us. Please._

Once at the hospital, with Aramis in the care of the medical community, all that was left for them to do was wait.

And wait. And wait some more.

Treville joined them shortly after ten in the morning, bearing cups of coffee. Athos wondered briefly how much damage he’d do to his esophagus if he chugged it.

“Thanks,” Porthos muttered. 

“Any news?” The captain sat, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world rested on them. 

“No,” said Athos. “Nothing yet.”

“He’s young. Strong. He’ll pull through.”

Athos looked at Treville; the captain was so damn sure. But he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen just _what_ Aramis had survived. 

“I need some air,” Porthos said, leaving his coffee behind as he headed from the waiting room and down the hallway. Athos didn’t know whether to let him be or go after him, and his indecision kept his ass planted in the chair, uncomfortable as it was.

“Family for d’Herblay?”

He and Treville stood as one to shake hands with the doctor who, in Athos’s opinion, looked _way_ too young to have a medical degree. He clutched his coffee as tightly as he dared, mindful of the Styrofoam. 

“How’s Aramis?” Treville asked.

“Aramis?” The doctor glanced at his chart. 

Athos finally unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Yes. Rene Aramis. Him.” He made a _get on with it_ motion. “How is he?”

“Very lucky.” The doctor motioned to the chairs they’d recently abandoned, unperturbed when Porthos returned and he had to face three anxious faces instead of two.

“Did he say lucky?” Porthos muttered.

“Lucky,” he repeated, “not to have fractured his skull. He took a very hard hit here.” He motioned to his right temple. “It required about twenty stitches to close, and we had to shave the hair from the area.”

There was a collective wince. Aramis was rather particular about his hair. A bald spot was not going to go over well.

“His heart rate was low, as was his core temperature. We’ve managed to raise and stabilize the temperature, and we have him in ICU for close observation.”

“Can we see him?” Athos and Porthos asked together, already halfway to their feet.

“Yes, but I want to warn you.” The doctor motioned for them to sit again. “He looks a little rough. Such prolonged exposure to such cold is hard on the body. His lung function is a little diminished and we’re keeping him as comfortable as possible. We’ve put him on a vent.”

A vent. That was…not good, but okay.

Porthos stiffened. “What else?”

“His head injury is quite severe. We’re not sure when he’ll wake up or what he’ll remember. He could remember the entire incident or none of it. Time, and Rene himself will tell.”

None of them quite knew how to take that. Athos supposed he should be thankful the man hadn’t told him Aramis wouldn’t survive the day, but he also hadn’t said _when_ Aramis would wake.

Fucking head wounds.

“Shall I take you to him?”

“Yes!”

The doctor reared back slightly, but otherwise didn’t comment.

 

The quiet of ICU reminded him of the silence of the campsite in the woods, and Athos shivered.

“One at a time, no more than twenty minutes.” The doc was firm.

Athos gave Porthos a shove toward the cubicle door. Porthos squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. There was no steady beeping of the heart monitor – that relayed to the nurse’s station – and it made the whoosh-click of the vent seem twice as loud. There was a patch of hair about three fingers wide missing from his right temple, the stitches stark against pale skin.

 _At least,_ he thought, _he doesn’t look blue anymore._

But he didn’t look overly alive, either.

He looked small and fragile, almost the opposite of his normally buoyant self. 

Well, he had twenty minutes and he wasn’t going to spend them gawking.

“Hey, ‘Mis.” Porthos sank heavily into the chair at his bedside, cradling Aramis’s limp, cold hand between both his own. He rested his forehead against his knuckles and, for the first time in forever, took a leaf out of Aramis’s book and prayed.

 

“Officer de la Fere?”

Athos turned sharply away from Porthos’s bowed head to look at the diminutive nurse in front of him. “Yes?”

“Mister d’Herblay’s personals.” She handed him a blue plastic bag.

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath and opened it. The first thing he saw, tangled together in a plastic sandwich baggy on top of Aramis’s filthy jeans and shirt, was his crucifix and worn wooden rosary.

He swallowed thickly, the bag replaced with another. Dress slacks and a bloody striped shirt. He’d been in the very same hospital, too, several floors down and outside the morgue.

_”Do you know this man, Mister de la Fere?”_

_“Thomas. That’s – that’s Thomas. My brother.”_

“Athos?”

He sucked in a hard breath and opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Treville was looking at him oddly and he knew if he didn’t get his shit together the captain was going to start asking questions he didn’t want to answer. 

“I don’t know if there’s going be anything helpful on his clothes,” Athos said, setting the bag on the floor to better look through it. He pulled out Aramis’s credentials and, there on the bottom, were strips of Musketeer blue boat cloak. 

Strips, he would bet, that matched the remains of Marsac’s. 

He turned the baggy with rosary and crucifix over in his hands absently. “Twenty dead, one survivor, and one missing.” He finally met Treville’s eyes as he said, “Marsac’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Missing. He wasn’t there.” Athos glanced through the glass at Porthos and Aramis. “We found Aramis propped against a tree, and his head wound wrapped like someone had tried bandaging it. Had to have been Marsac. I have the rest of his boat cloak, shield, and badge in the car.” It had seemed less important once they had gotten to the hospital, and Athos had left it sitting in the passenger seat.

Athos looked at his hands, almost surprised to see he still held Aramis’s credentials. He flipped the little book open – Aramis’s smiling face stared back at him from his SITRU ID card, and the etched fleur-de-lis on his badge caught the fluorescent lights above him, glistening brightly much the same as it had in Treville’s office.

_”Captain?” Aramis poked his head around the door frame, the bruise on his jaw still a stark shade of purple. A souvenir from their latest bust and a gun runner who didn’t want to atone for his crimes._

_“Come in and shut the door, Aramis.” Treville didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk as he said it. Athos, leaning against the wall opposite the wall, smirked at the tactic. He’d done the same to Porthos, too._

_Aramis did as requested and came to stand in front of the captain’s desk, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans._

_Silence so thick it was tangible filled the space._

_“Is there – did I file my paperwork wrong?” he finally asked._

_Athos bit back a snort. Trust Aramis to always think he’d been the one to screw up._

_“No. There’s nothing wrong with your latest report.” Treville stacked the pages in front of him neatly and stood, reaching for the black wallet sitting innocently on the corner of his desk. “Though your team leader has felt the need to make a verbal report, as well.”_

_He glanced between Treville and Athos, clearly wondering if Athos was going to throw him under the bus._

_“How much longer do you have on your probationary period?” the captain asked._

_“Approximately four weeks, sir.”_

_“Not anymore.” He held the wallet out to Aramis. “Congratulations, and welcome to the Special Investigations and Tactical Response Unit.”_

_Aramis took it with steady fingers, flipping it open. Athos watched him run his fingertips along the fleur-de-lis on his shield, smiling softly. While he was distracted with that, Athos took the spaulder Treville held out to him, along with the bolt of bright blue that was their dress uniform boat cloak. Aramis would have to get measured for the rest of it, but the spaulder and boat cloak he could have then._

_“Thank you,” Aramis said quietly._

_Athos cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth twitching as Aramis’s attention swung his direction. “Welcome to Team One.”_

_He took the spaulder first, turning the carefully tooled leather over in his hands with the same reverence he had his badge. He took the boat cloak next, and, after a bit of fumbling, managed to get it on over his right shoulder, the knot in the cord sitting just under his armpit. His wide, easy smile could have lit half the province._

“Athos? Athos? Olivier?”

He jerked at the sound of his given name and looked up at Porthos’s tired, if slightly hopeful, face. 

“My – it’s your turn. If you wanna sit with him.” Porthos gestured through the glass wall at Aramis’s still form in the bed. 

“Yeah.” Athos nodded, and walked on wooden legs through the door and into the ICU room. At first he found it difficult to get past the foot of the bed, and when he finally made it to the chair he sat heavily, the industrial plastic hell on his ass. 

The whoosh-click of the vent was the only sound in the room. 

Porthos had probably kept up a steady stream of words. He’d probably tried to coax, cajole – maybe even threaten – Aramis back to them. Athos couldn’t do that. Even if he could find the right words he probably wouldn’t be able to get them out past the lump in his throat. 

He couldn’t do words. Aramis was their talker. 

Athos could do actions. Hell, he’d made a lifetime of letting them speak for him. It was what he knew, and sometimes the only way he could communicate. 

Slowly and gently, he wrapped his fingers around Aramis’s cold ones and lifted them from the mattress enough to slip his badge underneath. And that was how he stayed for those twenty short minutes.

 

He opened his eyes expecting to see the inside of his tent and found himself surrounded by a soft white. Which was strange, to say the least, as the last thing he remembered was settling into his sleeping bag for the night with Marsac only inches away from him.

Marsac.

Aramis rubbed at the right side of his head and stared at the wall. Marsac was – his friend. 

The scene on the wall changed.

_They had been dancing around something for months. It was a simple invitation – a movie and a beer – and it led to, well…Aramis found himself pressed back against the door while Marsac checked him for tonsils._

God, his head hurt. Why did his head hurt?

The wall changed again, this time showing his childhood home and the memory – as he realized that’s what they were – wasn’t one he thought of often. 

_…Louisa and Rosalie stood on the ground below him._

_“Rene! Come down now before Mama sees you!” Louisa said, stamping her foot for emphasis._

_He ignored her, choosing instead to climb higher. The only time he’d ever been on the next branch was when Papa was standing there, too, waiting in case he fell._

_Papa was gone. It was him and the girls now, and he needed to be strong for them._

_His foot slipped; Rosalie and Louisa screamed, and he hit the ground with a thud, pain radiating through his arm and head._

“Concussion…” Aramis murmured, staring at the image of fear frozen on his sisters’ faces. “I have a concussion?”

There was nothing and nobody but the walls around him. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. There was a reason. There had to be a reason. 

_Training mission…camping…Marsac and Marius, Dom, Phillippe…all of Team Ten. They were…they were…_

He picked his head up and all around him was the image of Jean on his back, sightless eyes staring at the sky as the front of him was soaked from blood starting from his neck. 

Aramis screamed, and then couldn’t seem to stop.

 

It wasn’t like emerging from a fog. It was more one moment he was sleeping and the next his eyes opened and he blinked rapidly, hoping to chase the blurriness from them. He didn’t immediately recognize his surroundings, but he did know who sat next to him. 

Porthos.

Aramis wanted to say something. He wanted to move, but it would take too much effort, and his limbs felt too heavy as it was. He settled for lying there, head turned slightly to the side, and simply watched. Porthos’s attention was on something toward the foot of the bed, and Aramis didn’t have enough coordination to see for himself. 

Finally, Porthos looked at him and did a clear double take. 

“Hey, ‘Mis,” he said, pulling his chair closer to the bed and making movements with his hands like he wanted to touch Aramis but wasn’t sure about it. He never did, and Aramis didn’t know if he was relieved by that or offended. “God, you’re – you’re awake. You’re awake.”

He blinked, brow furrowing slightly as Porthos wrapped both big hands around one of his own, dropped his forehead to his knuckles, and began to silently cry. 

With supreme effort, and because he needed to know who was watching, he turned his head away from Porthos and found Athos staring at them through the glass wall of what he was starting to realize was an ICU cubicle. 

Athos, who looked like he just might have found a sort of faith again, though he didn’t quite believe it. 

Aramis let his head settle further into the pillow and closed his eyes. Someone would have to explain it to him when he woke up again. 

 

Constance had always needed something to do with her hands while she waited. The blue bag with Aramis’s belongings was still with them at the hospital, and when she saw the tangled mess his crucifix and rosary were in the sandwich baggy, she knew immediately what she could do to pass the time more efficiently than reading stale magazines. 

With an old periodical on her lap as a work space, she dumped the contents of the baggy out and began using the fine motor skills she used to have as a seamstress-for-hire in her teenage years to begin untangling Aramis’s tangible faith. She’d never seen him without the simple gold cross and chain around his neck, easily hidden beneath his shirt, though the rosary was harder to spot. It made appearances only briefly, and in dire circumstances. 

_Fitting,_ she mused sadly. _For it to be here now._ She looked toward the hallway leading down to the ICU itself. She’d spent her twenty minutes with him earlier, pushing his hair back from his forehead and trying not to look at the tube breathing for him. Nor the stitches in the shaved patch on the right side of his head. 

Athos barreled around the corner with the finesse of a water buffalo, and damn near skidded to a stop. “Constance!”

She jerked, and for one, brief moment when she looked at his face, she feared the worst. Aramis had – had – 

“He woke up!” Athos collapsed into the nearest chair and let out a sound suspiciously like a laugh though it was tinged with hysteria. “He woke up.”

Constance dropped the rosary and crucifix on the magazine to cover her mouth with both hands. Her mind went blank, and the only thing that really registered was the sweet feeling of relief. Aramis had woken up. True, he wasn’t totally out of the woods yet – and the doctor still wasn’t sure what he would remember of the incident, if any of it – but it was a start. 

She looked at the rosary beads on the magazine and sent up two silent prayers of thanks, one for Aramis’s ability to find his way back to them, and the other for not taking yet another brother from Athos. 

Speaking of the man in question, her head swiveled to look at him and found Treville pushing on Athos’s shoulder until his head was between his knees. 

“Breathe,” Treville murmured, barely audible to her only a few chairs over. “Breathe, Athos.”

Athos’s back twitched with each breath he pulled in. Knowing that he was well in hand with Treville, Constance picked up the magazine again and started once more on untangling the mess in front of her. She also couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

* * *

_Most of the others had retreated to their tents for the night as the darkness settled in for good. Aramis pulled the edges of his flannel shirt – stolen from Athos’s flat the last time he was there – closer together and wished he’d gotten his jacket before settling. The fire kept him warm enough, but there was still a chill to the air – a warning of the coming winter – and the last thing he wanted was to catch any sort of illness. Getting sick would mean being pestered to take over the counter medication or see a doctor, and Aramis wasn’t too crazy about medical professionals to begin with. They were a necessity, of course, given his line of work, but that didn’t mean he wanted to or had to be buddy-buddy with them when someone wasn’t in the ER._

_It was one of the reasons he’d practically begged Treville to let him take EMS courses. All Musketeers were trained in at least basic first aid. Some had more training, and Aramis had wanted to make sure he wasn’t helpless if either Athos or Porthos went down._

_He shivered, and hugged himself tighter._

_There was a sigh behind him, and something heavy and warm was draped over his shoulders, smelling slightly of damp wool. Aramis wrapped himself more securely in the boat cloak as Marsac settled on the ground next to him, the pair of them touching from shoulder to calf._

_“Did you pack a coat or anything?” Marsac asked, tossing another couple of smaller sticks on the fire._

_“Of course.” Aramis relaxed against the man next to him with a sigh. “I just don’t want to get up and get it right now.”_

_“Lazy ass.”_

_“Klepto.”_

_Marsac huffed indignantly. “For the last time, Aramis, I didn’t take your goddamn brand new box of pens!”_

_“Somebody did. You’re the only one without an alibi.” He kept the corners of his mouth from twitching through sheer force of will. “It’s not like Athos or Porthos use that kind, anyway, and I saw you with one the other day.”_

_“Aramis,” he said slowly, leaning away from the other man to look at him better, the firelight creating harsh shadows on his face. “I didn’t take your pens. And you hoard office supplies.”_

_“Do not,” Aramis muttered, glad the darkness hid the color flooding his cheeks._

_“You do, and it doesn’t make any sense because the only people who have desks are the captain and Constance.” He slung an arm around Aramis’s slimmer shoulders. “Sometimes I wonder how he expects us to get anything done.”_

_It truly was, sometimes, a wonder how any of them accomplished anything. Aramis would be the first to admit that the SITRU’s top team was more than a little eccentric at times, and consisted of an ex-lawyer, a sniper, and a man who could very well be working seamlessly on the opposite side of the law. None of them really had an office – Team One had appropriated a conference room for so long it was theirs by default – and there were only a smattering of laptops to go around, used mainly for writing reports._

_He rested his head on Marsac’s shoulder with a soft exhale. “We should be called the Miracle Workers instead of the Musketeers.”_

_Marsac snorted quietly, and tipped his head just right. In that moment, with the angle of the firelight and the half smile playing around his mouth, Aramis was reminded of the reasons he’d fallen into and out of love with that man…_

_…. **snick** …. **snick** …_

_….red on white….stars flashed across the sky…they hadn’t been able to see the stars through the trees but Aramis could, he could see the lights bursting behind his eyelids…._

_….hands lifted him, dragged him…._

_…..”I can’t – I can’t do this anymore…”_

Aramis clawed his way upright through a cacophony of sound. Monitors screamed, doctors and nurses yelled to each other, and he thought he caught a glimpse of Porthos in the chaos. He reached out only to be pulled back, and when he went to call out the words stuck in his throat around – 

He bent forward, one hand clutching the sheets and the other still reaching for where he thought Porthos was, and gagged. He stomach convulsed painfully, and for a few frightening seconds the pain in his head competed with the agony that was trying to vomit something that wouldn’t move from his esophagus. 

People were still shouting, machines were blaring, and with little warning the hair on the back of his neck stood upright. Aramis threw his elbow back, aiming for any soft spot and feeling a panicked rush of short-lived triumph when it encountered something soft. The sound level intensified, and more hands reached for him. He scrambled backward as best he could, still tied to numerous lines, leads, and what he realized was a breathing tube. Several things crashed to the floor. 

“ _Enough!_ ”

Aramis froze instinctively as the room went silent other than for the sound of the ventilator and the noise he made every so often as he fought the tube. His head was pounding, and he realized he wasn’t wearing much of anything. 

The assembled medical personnel parted like the Red Sea for Treville and a man in a white coat who didn’t look remotely old enough to carry a medical degree. Aramis’s eyes locked on his captain, who came close enough for him to latch physically onto. Treville’s grip was strong and steady, and it was the only thing preventing him from further panicking as the doctor talked him softly through removing the ventilator tube. 

It was an awful experience all around, and Aramis’s head pounded in time with his frantic heart beat as he heaved more bile and spit into the emesis bowl held under his chin. Finally, his body seemed to subside and he leaned heavily back against the pillows while trying to calm his breathing. 

“Deep breaths,” Treville murmured, still holding Aramis’s hand as tightly as before. “Deep breaths, Aramis. Do you know where you are?”

He warily eyed the medical personnel hovering just off the foot of the bed, and the doctor on his other side, and managed, after a few false starts, to croak, “Hos – hospital?”

“Yes. A hospital in Quebec City.”

Someone shifted, and Aramis caught a glimpse of Porthos’s broad shoulder next to Athos’s untidy mop of hair beyond the glass wall, and he struggled to sit up better. Treville assisted him with a gentle hand on his back. 

“Porthos…” He took a deep breath, and turned his head with a wince. He couldn’t see into the next room, unfortunately, and something cold knotted under his breastbone. “Where…”

_…something shiny and gold in the newly fallen snow…bits of blue wrapped around his aching head, and a tender touch he’d known in many capacities running through his hair…_

“Marsac?” Aramis whispered. “Where’s – where’s – “

Treville used his free hand to carefully turn Aramis’s face toward him to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Aramis. Marsac’s gone.”

“Where – he’s not – he’s not…” Aramis’s face crumpled, and his shoulders curled forward. 

Ever so gently, and very mindful of what had to be a very sore spot on the side of Aramis’s head, Treville held him close as he sobbed.

* * *

“I don’t think he should be alone right now, that’s all.” Porthos leaned against the wall in the corridor while Aramis finished getting ready to leave the hospital. He’d been there a couple weeks, first in ICU then in a step-down unit, and finally a regular room.

“He’s going to want to be somewhere familiar,” Athos pointed out. “Or it’s going to be a much harder transition when he’s back to living on his own.”

“So I’ll stay with him for a little while. Long enough for him to get back on his feet, but not long enough for him to get sick of me.”

Athos, in that moment, wanted to point out there wasn’t any way Aramis would ever get sick of him, and nearly bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood so he wouldn’t. They’d been nicknamed the Inseparables by some of the other teams, and while it was normally a compliment, Athos wasn’t so sure how Aramis would take it right now.

He wasn’t sure what to do for their youngest teammate at the moment, truthfully. 

Porthos leaned in closer to Athos and said, very quietly, “He was alone in the woods with twenty dead Musketeers for who knows how long. I’m not leaving him alone again. Not right now. You either agree with that or you don’t.”

The door opening saved him from having to find something to say, and Aramis shuffled into the hallway, arms wrapped around his midsection. 

“Hey,” Porthos said brightly. To anyone who knew better, the edges of his smile were a little tarnished, but it seemed to bolster Aramis’s spirit a little. “Ready?”

Aramis shrugged half-heartedly. He reached up a hand to rub the side of his head, thought better of it, and hugged himself a little tighter. 

“Are you cold?” Athos asked as they walked to the elevator. 

“A bit.” He wedged himself into the corner of the elevator. 

The atmosphere in the small car was almost stifling. Aramis flinched each time the door opened with a ding, and, as none of them were particularly adept at small talk on a good day, the silence stretched uncomfortably between them until they reached the parking garage. 

If Athos had thought the line of Aramis’s shoulders couldn’t get any tighter, well, he was proven wrong. Aramis didn’t let any of the tension he carried ease until he was ensconced in the backseat of Athos’s SUV and, once again, wedged into a corner where he could see both out the window and the front seats at the same time. 

Porthos checked on him periodically every so often as they drove away from the hospital, and finally relaxed himself as Aramis dropped into a light doze not too far from his flat. 

“Is he asleep?” Athos asked quietly, turning the heat up another notch when he glanced in the rearview mirror and caught sight of another shiver. 

“In and out, I think.” Porthos scrubbed a hand over his face. 

With another glance in the mirror at Aramis’s slack features, the stitches stark against the side of his head and pale face, Athos turned down a street and away from Aramis’s flat. He had a full tank of gas and nowhere else to be. They could do this for however long they needed to.

Forty minutes later, as Athos and Porthos were in the middle of quiet game of looking for consecutive letters of the alphabet on the license plates of parked cars, Aramis came awake with a snort and a flail. 

“Time is it?” Aramis asked, rubbing his eyes. 

“Almost dinner,” Athos said, glancing at the clock on the dash. As they were closer to his place, he made the executive decision to get dinner for the three of them at his place. Judging from the pallor – and slight green tinge – Aramis’s face had taken on, being upright for so long was probably too much for him. 

Unfortunately, the nearest parking space was a couple blocks from his building door, and they had to walk. Aramis twitched when someone passing the other way came too close, and Athos could tell it was driving Porthos up the wall to see his normally composed friend so jumpy and uncomfortable.

The stray kitten that hung around the steps was still there, mewing pitifully at the three of them. Athos fumbled with his keys, and nearly dropped them. He _did_ drop them when Porthos nudged him hard in the side. 

“Look,” was all Porthos whispered. 

Athos picked his keys up and swung his attention in the direction Porthos subtly hinted at with his chin. 

Aramis crouched on the sidewalk, one arm still wrapped tightly around his midsection, while the other reached out trembling fingers toward the small ball of matted fur. The kitten came closer, cautiously sniffing the human’s fingertips, and gently butted its head against Aramis’s palm. 

Athos watched as the first real ghost of a smile tugged at Aramis’s lips since he’d gone away to the woods. 

A bicycle whizzed by too close to the pair of them; the kitten darted for a bolt hole, and Aramis almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to put his back against the brick wall of the building. 

“Hungry?” Porthos asked as Aramis hurried over to follow Athos closely into the foyer, and putting Porthos between his back and the door. 

“Sort of.” The half-shrug was back. “I could eat, I guess.”

Porthos went to clap him on the back and thought better of it, settling instead for touching him lightly on the arm under the pretext of making sure he didn’t trip going up the stairs.

 

Much later, after Athos had driven Porthos and Aramis to Aramis’s flat and was walking up the sidewalk toward his front door again, he slowed down. From the growing shadows, a pair of large yellow eyes stared at him. He shouldn’t. There were others who were much more qualified to give the animal a better home than he was. 

Still, the image of Aramis crouched, patiently waiting for the kitten to come to him, was one that wouldn’t leave him alone. He remembered the wideness of Aramis’s eyes, the way the haunted look had slithered away for a moment or two, and he’d been the Aramis from before the massacre in the woods. He’d been the Aramis that Athos had first come to know as a coworker and then as a brother-in-arms. 

Aramis was the little brother he’d found alive, and God knew Athos was going to do anything in his power to keep it like that. 

Which, apparently, also included taking in a ball of fur that didn’t look big enough to be a few steps from its mother.

Athos crouched, much the same way Armais had earlier, and slowly extended his hand. Cautiously, the kitten came forward, sniffed his fingertips, and permitted Athos to rub the soft fur between its ears. It came closer yet; Athos scooped the tiny creature up into his arms and rose to his feet. 

“Well, hello.” He scratched it between the ears as he continued up the sidewalk. “I have a friend who needs you as much as you need us.” He’d always wanted a cat, too, but his mother had been allergic, and though he’d thought about it when he moved out, he’d met Anne shortly after and she wasn’t a pet person. 

She wasn’t really a people-person, either, and he cut that train of thinking off well before it could send him into a tailspin. They had enough to deal with without him adding his issues to the mix as well. 

It was only when he was inside his flat with a purring bundle of matted black fur still in his arms that he realized, while he’d always wanted a cat, he didn’t really know the first thing about taking care of one.

* * *

_Aramis looked at the budding trees as the priest’s words washed over him. He understood the French – his father’s native tongue – perfectly. What he lacked was the comprehension of the words and the finality they were spoken with._

_Rosalie tightened her fingers around his own and he squeezed back reflexively. They stood together, the three of them in a line from oldest to youngest with Mama a little ways from Louisa. The only thing Aramis hated more than seeing his sisters cry was seeing his Mama so upset, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to make her smile again. He could make her yell, but he couldn’t get her to show her dimples like Papa had been able to._

_The breeze ruffled the leaves on the surrounding trees, and when Rosalie let go of him to take the two roses Louisa passed her, Aramis felt untethered, like a balloon ready and willing to float away forever._

_She pressed the flower into his lax hand, and he curled his fingers around it otherwise he’d drop it on the ground._

_Papa would bring home a rose for each of his girls on Tuesdays. **Just because** , he’d said. **Just because.**_

_He and Aramis had shared something different. At the old pool table in the basement, Papa had taught him the game. He’d taught him how to see each successive shot before he took it, and how if something looked impossible, all one needed to do was look at it from a different angle._

_Rosalie drifted away from her spot by his elbow and Aramis blindly followed, dropping the rose onto the top of the casket already partially lowered into the earth to join the others._

_She held out her hand to him; he took it, and let her lead him after Mama and Louisa, the priest trailing along behind them…_

Aramis jolted himself back to the present with a shiver, pulling his arms and legs closer to his torso and hunkering even further into the blankets. He’d taken all the spares from the tiny closet in the hallway, and had debated taking the comforter off the bed. Wedged into the corner of the couch with at least three layers of clothing on, plus the blankets, and still unable to get warm, Aramis was seriously considering going back for it.

Only, that would require him to move and that…didn’t seem like a good idea. 

He had the ideal vantage point, seated as he was. The whole of the living room was open to him, and he could see part of the bedroom through the open door. Porthos puttered around in the kitchen, the sound bordering between being soothing in its own right and grating on him, and he _knew_ the front door was locked. He’d locked it himself, turned the dead bolt, and put on the chain. It was the first thing he’d done once he and Porthos were in the flat. 

Still, there was a shiver, an itch under his skin he couldn’t get rid of that demanded he check because what if he hadn’t? What if it was open? What if someone was waiting for nightfall, for the shadows to lengthen and his guard to drop…

Suddenly, the couch didn’t seem like the greatest of places to be. It felt too open. Too exposed. 

He needed something smaller. Something more easily protected, with much less open space. And…something to protect himself. He was too vulnerable out in the open. Too easily taken advantage of. 

Too easily rendered helpless. 

With his headache thrumming faintly behind his forehead, Aramis made the decision for a tactical retreat. He gathered his blankets and, once upright, looked for the most defendable place in the flat. 

The bathroom was too obvious. Anyone and everyone in the movies always hid in the bathroom. It would be the first place anyone looked. 

Moving as silently as he could, Aramis hauled his blankets into the bedroom and toward the closet. Small. Dark. One way in and one way out. 

He made a nest for himself on the floor – even took the comforter off the bed, too, for added warmth – and snagged the spare Glock from his nightstand. With the door all the way open so he couldn’t be taken by surprise again, he carefully rested the left side of his head against the wall, the Glock a reassuring weight on his thigh. 

_Shoulda brought a pillow,_ he thought, fingers twitching toward the weapon at the sight of someone hovering just outside the bedroom doorway. 

Porthos peeked his head, took one look at Aramis, paled considerably, and beat a rather hasty retreat back to the phone in the kitchen. 

Aramis put the hood on his jacket up, crossed his arms over his chest, and settled in for a night of keeping careful watch on the doorway. They wouldn’t get him again. Not this time.

* * *

Porthos paced angrily in front of Treville’s desk. “You can’t send somebody else?”

“My hands are tied.” Treville ran his fingers through his hair with a tired sigh. “If I could, I would. I know this is going to upset him.”

He snorted, and said, “That’s an understatement.” A moment later he shrugged and sat in the chair in front of the desk. He looked up on impulse. There, over Treville’s desk, was a fleur-de-lis of sharpened pencils embedded in the ceiling tile, courtesy of Officer de la Fere. 

Anyone who looked at it had to admit Athos’s muscle control and dexterity were almost unreal. It was second only to Aramis and his rifle, through Porthos had caught Aramis staring at his hands often enough lately to know they still trembled.

“How is he?” the captain asked softly, nodding toward the open door of his office. 

“Quiet. Doin’ better at sleepin’ through the night.” Porthos turned to his head to look.

Aramis had wadded himself in the chair at the end of Constance’s desk and appeared to be doing his level best to either hibernate in his sweatshirt or sink away from the world. Every now and then he would say something to Constance as she worked, but he didn’t smile. He didn’t sit on the edge of her desk and “borrow” her office supplies. There were no little figures made of binder clips, no chance of a surprise assault by rubber band and paperclips. 

“We’ll take care of him, Porthos. Athos, Constance, and I will take good care of him while you’re gone.” Treville waited until Porthos met his eyes to add, “You have my word.”

He wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. _Thank you_ seemed woefully inadequate, and he wasn’t sure he could get the words past the lump in his throat, anyway. He took a moment to compose himself, and then stood, exiting Treville’s office with a murmur. 

Constance, rifling through some folders, glanced up and gave him a smile. Aramis – 

Aramis was gone.

“In the conference room with Athos,” she said.

With his heart rate slowly coming down from Earth’s orbit, he made his way to the conference room Team One had long since claimed as theirs. 

Athos sat with his back to the windows overlooking Quebec City, a pile of manila folders in front of him. Tucked in the chair to his left was Aramis, most of his upper body on the smooth tabletop, head pillowed on his arms, hood up, and sound asleep. Athos had draped his good wool peacoat over him for extra warmth, too.

“I can’t get out of it,” Porthos said softly. “I tried. Treville would if he could.” He’d been committed to the conference in Vancouver for months, and, as Treville had said earlier, his hands were tied. 

“We’ll do just fine,” Athos said, absently twirling a pen with the fingers on one hand while the other tucked the collar of his coat more securely around Aramis’s shoulders and neck. “He can come stay with me for a little while.”

“Try for a night at his own place. Then if he doesn’t settle…”

“I know, Porthos.” And he did, too. He’d been there every step of the way since Aramis had been released from the hospital those three short weeks ago. Athos had been right beside the pair of them through the burial services for twenty Musketeers, had been there in the early morning hours as Porthos had tried, and damn near failed, to coax Aramis and the loaded gun from the closet. 

They were like a stool with a bent leg. Athos and Porthos were trying to keep the whole thing standing while Aramis worked at piecing himself together and upright again. His bad days currently outnumbered his good ones, though Athos knew that reverse with time. 

How much time, however, was another matter altogether. 

Porthos looked as though he had something more to say, and either couldn’t find the right words or couldn’t get them out. He settled, instead, for sitting across the conference table from the pair of them.

Athos went back to the files he was perusing, occasionally sliding some across the table to Porthos. They were old case files and reports, some from unclosed or cold cases. The SITRU success rate was astronomical, but that didn’t mean some criminals slipped through the cracks. Those were the times when even Team One was one step behind them all the way, and said criminals had fled Canada altogether. 

Somewhere a door slammed; Aramis bolted upright with a snort and a flail, Athos’s coat sliding off him and nearly dumping him out of the chair completely. He clutched the edge of the table; Athos’s hand hovered just above his shoulder. 

“ _Where - ?_ ” Aramis looked wildly around. 

“ _The Garrison,_ ” Porthos answered in French, to match him. “ _Athos is on your right. I’m right here. You’re safe._ ”

He rearranged himself more comfortably in the chair and drew Athos’s coat around him. Hunkering down in the folds of it, Aramis breathed in Athos’s sure and steady scent, and kept his eyes fixed on Porthos. 

“ _Do you want some coffee or anything?_ ” Athos asked quietly. 

“ _No. Thank you._ ” He rested his head back, one eyebrow raised. “ _Porthos. What is it?_ ”

For as easily as Porthos could read Aramis, Aramis could do the same to Porthos. Athos put his pen down and turned his full attention on what was sure to be an interesting conversation. 

“ _Do you remember when we talked a couple months ago? About that conference out in Vancouver?_ ” Porthos started.

The pair of them reached for Aramis as the color drained from his face and he pushed himself back away from the table. 

 

His shoulders twitched. There were people all around and nothing solid at his back to ensure no one could sneak up on him. He twisted his trembling hands together in front of him, and stepped closer to Athos.

They were at the airport, waiting until the last second to say goodbye to Porthos.

Aramis’s skin crawled.

“Eat and sleep while I’m gone, yeah?” Porthos said, shaking Athos’s hand before drawing him into a quick half hug. “Don’t let him totally self-destruct,” he added in an undertone.

“Of course not.” Athos gave him a small nod.

His heart beat wildly in his chest as Porthos turned to him. Aramis wanted to reach out and latch on, and never let go. If he did there was the chance – the chance – 

“Aramis.” Porthos cradled his face with both hands and looked him in the eye, blocking out everything else around them.

“Come back?” His voice cracked. “Please?”

“Are you listening? Both ears?” He waited until Aramis nodded. “I promise you I will come back. I promise. This is only temporary, and I will be back. Okay?”

Aramis couldn’t find his voice, and nodded jerkily. Anxiety rippled across his skin, but Porthos had promised. He’d promised. He was like Athos – he didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.

Porthos kissed him softly on the forehead. When he let go, Aramis felt like he was floating. In need of something to latch onto, he stepped close enough to Athos for their shoulders to touch. It helped, a bit. At least he no longer wanted to crawl out of his own skin. 

He had to remind himself to breathe as Porthos walked away. His vision flickered, snow-covered leaves and trees temporarily taking the place of the people and pillars around them. Porthos’s broad shoulders slimmed, hair and skin lightening until Aramis was watching Marsac walk away again. 

The scene rippled.

Aramis jerked back to the present and away from Athos’s touch at his elbow. 

“Ready?” Athos asked, seemingly nonplussed that Aramis had flinched away from him. 

He nodded, and followed Athos through the airport.

 

Athos and Aramis spent that night on the floor between the bed and the wall, the bedroom door always in sight. Neither of them slept well, and Aramis didn’t balk at the suggestion to stay at Athos’s for the remainder of the time Porthos was in Vancouver. 

Athos herded Aramis through the door and hastily shut it. He let Aramis lock it, including the dead bolt and chain, and waited.

Sure enough, the newest addition to his household came to investigate. Aramis froze; Athos took the opportunity to get a good look at the side of his head. Soon enough his hair would be long enough to cover his scar completely. 

The physical one, at least.

“Is this – this is the cat from the stoop, isn’t it?” Aramis crouched, hand held out to the small animal.

“Yes.” Athos ruthlessly suppressed a smile as Aramis’s reaching fingers didn’t shake. “His name is Dumas.”

He looked skeptically up at Athos. “Really?”

“It seemed appropriate.”

Aramis chuckled, a sound Athos hadn’t heard in weeks. Something in his chest eased, and he left Aramis sitting on the kitchen floor, Dumas attempting to butt his head against the human’s fuzzy chin while purring madly in order to put the younger man’s overnight bag in the living room.

“I can’t believe you got a cat,” Aramis said when Athos came back. His expression was open and genuine, the first real look at the Aramis before the massacre bleeding through the ever-present pain. 

It was then that Athos was forcibly reminded how young Aramis was. They’d be celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday in the spring.

Thom would have been only a year younger.

Athos sucked in a hard breath. 

_Thom would have liked you._

Swiping a hand over his jaw, Athos went about finding something for them to eat for dinner, and resolutely didn’t think about younger brothers. 

 

He could have kicked himself for not remembering Aramis was _extremely_ tactile. The younger man craved touch, more so now than he ever did before. It was that reason, coupled with his propensity for nightmares, that Athos suggested they share his bed. Aramis’s relief was palpable, and before he could further examine his motives – or the comparison to another who used to have nightmares with regularity – Athos found himself on one side of the mattress rather than in the middle.

There was a rustling sound, and Athos worked very hard not to react when Dumas padded across his head to get to Aramis. 

“Hey, you,” Aramis murmured, clearly not as asleep as Athos had thought. “Good kitty. Lay down?” There was a small thump, followed by Dumas’s chirp-like meow. “Big ears, good for listening.”

Athos stayed still and quiet, his breathing as sleep-like as he could manage. 

“ _He left me,_ ” he said quietly. “ _He left me in the woods._ ”

It took a second for his brain to understand the French, and he knew the ‘he’ in question meant Marsac. 

“ _Why – why would he do that? He…he loved me, didn’t he?_ ” Aramis whispered. “ _I loved him. Not – not like I love Athos and Porthos, like brothers but…we shared…I gave him_ everything _and he…he left._ ”

Athos heard him take several deep breaths, and his next words were wet with tears.

 _”Like…Porthos left. But he – he promised he’d come back. But Marsac promised he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t -_ ”

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Athos rolled over and gently chivvied the cat out of the way to peer through the semi-darkness to see Aramis’s face. He wrapped one hand around Aramis’s fingers and squeezed. 

_”Rene Aramis d’Herblay,_ ” Athos said firmly. “ _I do not know why Marsac did what he did and abandoned everything the Musketeers stand for that night in the woods, but I do know this. I know that Porthos and I will never do such a thing to you. I know that you are our brother in all but blood, and that we will stand by you come hell or high water._ ” He scooted across the mattress and kissed the crown of Aramis’s head. “ _We will not abandon you. Not now. Not ever. Of that I promise you._ ”

“ _You’ve never broken a promise to anybody,_ ” Aramis said, eyes glistening in the dark. 

Athos didn’t – couldn’t – tell him about another little brother. The one and only time he’d made a promise he couldn’t keep. He’d promised Thomas he’d take care of him always, protect him, and he’d failed miserably. 

But Aramis wasn’t Thom. And, if Athos had his way – as would Porthos – Aramis would never _be_ another Thom.

“ _And I do not intend to start now,_ ” he said. He rested one hand carefully over the tender, upturned side of Aramis’s head. 

Aramis sniffled. Athos waited. 

“ _He – he left me, Athos. Why did he leave me?_ ” Aramis’s eyes widened as the damn finally broke, shoulders curling forward with his sobs. 

Athos reached across the space between them, pulling Aramis to his chest and holding him tightly. This was the moment he and Porthos had been waiting for. This was the moment they weren’t sure was ever going to come in order for Aramis to heal properly. 

About a month after being taken from the massacre in the snowy woods, Athos held him while Aramis sobbed and tried to understand how and why the world had turned on its head.

 

Athos had never professed to be a chatterbox, and he liked his quiet as much as the next person. What he didn’t like, however, was the unnerving silence from Aramis in the wake of his breakdown. He’d talk to Athos when necessary, but other than that he didn’t hardly say a thing. He spent most of the day curled up in the corner of the couch with Dumas on the cushion next to him, and Athos at the other end. 

This was the only time Athos could ever remember hating his inability to make small talk with any sort of ease.

It was almost a relief on Sunday night when Constance called to see if it would be alright to visit. Aramis smiled briefly when Athos informed him she was coming, and predictably flinched when the doorbell rang. 

“Do you want to get it?” Athos asked. “You can look through the peephole first.”

Aramis rubbed his palms on his jeans, looked between Athos and Dumas for reassurance, and stood. Of course, Athos was only mildly shocked when he checked to make sure the knife strapped to his shin was loose in the sheath. He refrained from saying anything because _Aramis was going to answer the door_. 

Athos’s chest swelled with pride as Aramis looked through the peephole in the door, undid all the locks, and let Constance into the flat. Once she was in, and everything safely bolted again, he leaned against it and gave the pair of them the biggest smile Athos had seen since before SAVOY. 

Constance put a reusable shopping bag on the coffee table. She reached over, ruffling Athos’s hair until he batted at her hand. When she rounded on Aramis, she simply held her arms out. He walked right into them, still smiling.

“I have some things for you,” she said when they parted. 

“Okay.” He sat back down.

“So, I know – when did you get a cat?” She pointed to Dumas, curled up and purring happily.

“Couple weeks ago,” Athos said.

“Never figured you for a cat person, really.”

“Our Athos has hidden talents,” Aramis said quietly. 

They squished a little closer together so Constance could perch on the edge of the cushion next to Aramis as she reached into the bag. 

“First, I need to apologize,” she said, holding one of his hands. “I’m sorry it took me so long to straighten these out and return them to you. You probably thought they were gone forever.”

Carefully, well aware that for as far as Aramis had come he still startled at sharp movements even among friends, she withdrew two plastic baggies. She handed them both to him. 

With the bag balanced on his thigh, he touched the plastic reverently with his fingertips. Inside the one was his gold crucifix necklace. In the other were the worn, wooden beads of his rosary.

“We know they’re special to you,” she said softly. 

He opened the baggie with trembling fingers. “They’re – it’s – it was my father’s rosary.” Threading the beads through his fingers, the prayers came easily to mind, and brought a different kind of peace, one he’d been lacking. He wound them around his wrist in order to have both hands free to put his crucifix back on. It settled against his chest, and he flashed back to his confirmation, when Louisa had given it to him. 

They – Louisa, Rosalie, and their mother – and God, were, at the time, the cornerstones of his faith. They still were, in a way, joined by a select few others in Athos, Porthos, Constance, Treville, and the rest of his Musketeer brothers. 

Marsac had been among them. 

He’d been a part of the foundation of Aramis’s faith, and his disappearance had left a notable hole. A chink in an otherwise solid rock that had everything else crumbling around it while what was left of them tried to hold the pieces together.

Constance had, with the return the tangible talismans of his Catholic faith, brought with it some stability. Part of his world could right itself – or at least stand on its own again – and the rest of it could catch up.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes overly bright with unshed tears. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He lunged forward and engulfed her in a hug. 

She returned it as best she could, having been caught unaware, and smiled wetly at Athos over his shoulder. Athos rubbed his fingers over his lips and steadfastly ignored that his own eyes were tearing up.

“ _You have enough bravery and honor for an entire regiment of Musketeers,_ ” she whispered in his ear as she withdrew. Smoothing her thumbs along his cheekbones, she added, “ _And don’t you ever forget it._ ”

“Constance,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

“One more present,” she said, switching back to English. It was then she pulled a small potted plant from the bag. “This is a spider plant. They’re – well, they’re hardy little things. Some water and some nice words, and they’ll grow like weeds. His name is James,” she finished, handing it to him. “He’ll look lovely in your flat, I’m sure.”

Aramis rubbed his fingertips over the plant’s long leaves with a small smile. Something green. Something with new life. 

Much like him. 

“Yes, well, see that you do better with it than Porthos did with his,” she said briskly, rubbing her eyes. “He killed his first within a week, apparently. The second is still living.”

“Yeah,” he said absently. “That sounds like Porthos.”

For as many lovely traits and talents Porthos had, a green thumb was not one of them. A green thumb was as far removed from that list as Vancouver was from Quebec City.

Thinking of Vancouver brought about the fact that _Porthos was not here with them_ and his shoulders twitched. He was gone but he was coming back. Wasn’t he?

“Aramis?”

His head jerked around to look at Athos. 

“I’m going to make a pot of coffee. Do you want some tea?”

While Aramis loved a good cup of coffee, it was only asking for disaster for him to drink one that late at night. Tea, however, helped settle his nerves, and his fingers itched with the need to check the door locks one more time. He had to. If he didn’t, he didn’t know they were locked and then he, Athos, and Constance would be more susceptible to attack. 

_No._

He was at Athos’s. He was safe. This was as safe a place for him as his own flat, even more so with Athos there. Athos wouldn’t let anything – or anyone – hurt either himself or Constance. 

Slowly, his fingers eased up on the white-knuckled grip he had of his own knees, and he forced himself to relax back into the couch cushions, the plant safely on the coffee table. 

“Are you alright?” Constance asked softly.

Aramis flinched; he’d almost forgotten she was there. “Better. I’m better.”

And it was the truth, too. 

 

Athos gave up trying to contain Aramis’s excitement after about five minutes of the younger man bouncing almost incessantly on the balls of his feet. According to the arrivals board, Porthos’s plane had landed, and they were currently waiting – rather impatiently, in Aramis’s case – for the passengers to disembark. 

While Aramis might have looked wholly excited to an outsider, Athos noted the line of stiffness in his back that screamed anxiety. Aramis had been assured that Porthos would come back by not only the man himself, but Athos, Constance, and Treville. If Porthos didn’t appear, well…Athos didn’t want to think what that would do to Aramis’s trust in them. It would probably cease to exist.

He watched Aramis’s face, and saw the moment he found Porthos in the crowd. His eyes lit up, his entire expression first going slack with wonder, then open with joy. Once he had that first glimpse he was gone, threading his way through the crowd with Athos following more sedately behind him. The people around them cleared enough for him to get an unobstructed view of the running leap Aramis took.

Porthos dropped duffel bag in order to catch Aramis around the waist as Aramis wrapped both arms and legs around the bigger man, clinging like a limpet. They looked more like lovers than the close friends Athos knew they were, and he filed the thought away in the back of his mind. It would come back around again, he was sure of it.

As he wandered closer, he could begin to hear what Porthos was saying in Aramis’s ear.

“Told you I’d be back, you idiot. Like I was going to leave you and Athos alone for longer than necessary. Treville would go insane and the city would crumble.”

“I don’t think you can single-handedly stop such a thing,” Athos said dryly as Aramis finally, and reluctantly, detached himself from Porthos’s larger frame. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Porthos picked his bags up again, and then reached over, ruffling Athos’s hair before he could swipe the offending hand away. “Treville’s been crazy since the Commissioner started the SITRU in the first place.”

Aramis smiled, and the tension that had been sitting in Athos’s sternum since he’d gone to Vancouver finally eased.

 

Athos considered it significant growth over the past month and a half that Aramis, though still wadded in the conference room chair like he was a small child instead of a twenty-four-year-old man, didn’t have the back of the chair butted up against the wall. He had clear sightlines on the windows and door, of course, and he was alert, but it wasn’t the hyper-vigilance he’d been exhausting himself with since he’d been released from the hospital.

That, and the fact they were at the Garrison, which somehow exuded safety, were the only things that allowed Constance to make it all the way to the conference room doorway without Aramis hitting the roof.

He tensed momentarily, and then relaxed with a small wave. His bright smile wasn’t back yet, and there was still a lack of binder clip figurines on Constance’s desk. 

Things were improving. Slowly, but surely.

“The captain would like to see you in his office, Aramis.” She smiled. 

Aramis shot Athos a glance he couldn’t readily identify, and uncurled himself to follow Constance down the hallway. 

“Do you know what that’s about?” Porthos asked after the two of them were gone.

“My understanding is that the captain is going to offer Aramis his badge and shield back.” He held up a hand at Porthos’s obvious delight. “After he completes his required ten sessions with Elliott, psych and physical evaluations, and tests out on the range again.”

Porthos scrubbed a hand over his face. From the sound of it, Aramis’s long road to full recovery and reinstatement had just gotten a little longer. Not that anyone could blame rules and regulations. They were in place for a reason, and neither he nor Athos wanted anyone behind the scope of a sniper rifle who wasn’t mentally sound. 

And as much as neither of them wanted to think it, there was always the unspeakable: what if Aramis _didn’t_ test out again.

“Are you still staying with him?” Athos asked, one eye on the door for Aramis’s return and the other eyeing Porthos more shrewdly than was appreciated at that hour of the morning.

“Yep.” Porthos leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out. “When he tells me to go, I’ll go. But not before.”

Athos was well aware of most of Aramis’s idiosyncrasies, one of them being his need to be around people but having an unwillingness to ask someone to stay. Porthos had circumvented that by, for all intents and purposes, taking up residence in Aramis’s flat since his release from the hospital. 

From what Athos could gather, however, Aramis hadn’t allowed him to sleep on the couch yet, preferring to have another warm, breathing, _living_ body within reach. And if Athos had been the one to wake up amongst twenty dead friends and fellow Musketeers, well, then, he’d want that assurance, too. 

Aramis shuffled into view, and came to an awkward halt just inside the conference room doorway. He fidgeted slightly, running his fingertips along the rosary beads still wrapped around his wrist. “He, uh – the captain…” The words died out, and he swallowed audibly, clearly struggling for what to say. “I’m still a Musketeer.”

Porthos was stunned into momentary silence by the soft, awe-filled statement. 

“Of course you are,” Athos said, kicking Porthos discreetly in the leg to make sure he stayed quiet for a moment. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Because – because I – because they…” He splayed his fingers out in front of him, like his hands were poised at the keys of a piano; Athos noted they were no longer trembling. 

“Are they, the twenty of our brothers-in-arms that we buried, not still Musketeers as well?” He got up and skirted around the edge of the table to put his hand flat between Aramis’s twitching shoulders. “They are, and always will be, as are you.”

Porthos thought his heart would burst with pride as he watched Aramis lean into the touch Athos had offered. 

Softly, barely loud enough for Porthos to hear, Aramis murmured, “Thank you.” What, specifically, it was for he didn’t specify, and Athos would be damned if he was going to ruin the moment and ask.

* * *

_He wouldn’t be taken. Not again._

_Aramis picked up the branch and brandished it like a sword. The four – or was it six, he honestly couldn’t tell with the pounding in his head – shadowy figures backed off momentarily. They had their knives at the ready, blades stained red with the blood of twenty dead Musketeers._

**Twenty-one.**

_He shook his head to clear it of the voice booming around him._

**Twenty-one.**

_”No,” he whispered. “No.”_

**Aramis.**

_The figures in black advanced as a unit._

**Aramis!**

_He dodged another downward swipe, responding with a punch of his own. Someone else caught him around the shoulders, taking him to the soft forest floor. Past and present mingled together, and in one last desperate bid for freedom, he aimed for the face that came swimming out of the darkness to sit beside him._

With a snort and a flail, Aramis came awake in time to see Porthos back off with a swear word, hand protectively over his nose. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, heart thumping madly in his chest, and scrambled backward, aiming to put distance between the two of them. 

Aramis ran out of mattress and flopped himself off the edge of the bed with a yelp and a solid _thunk_ as he hit the floor.

The short fall seemed to knock the fight right out of him, and he stared up through the semi-darkness, heart pounding in his chest. 

“Aramis?”

Porthos’s voice was muffled, and when Aramis rose up on his knees to see over the mattress, Porthos had one hand cupped over his nose. His eye was already blackening, and a sickening guilt wormed its way into the pit of Aramis’s stomach. 

“It’s not your fault,” Porthos said, sniffling and touching under his nose. It wasn’t bleeding, but Aramis hadn’t pulled his punch either. None of them did, whether they were at the gym in the Garrison sparring with each other or off-duty out and about in Quebec City.

“ _I hit you._ ” The words, in English, were heavily emphasized. Like Aramis couldn’t believe it himself, though the evidence was right there in front of him. 

“You didn’t mean to.” He stretched out on his belly and extended a hand toward Aramis. “You had a nightmare. I tried to wake you up. Shoulda known you’d come up swingin’.”

Aramis scooted until he had his back against the wall, the cool temperature blissful against his overheated skin. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“Didn’t say that.” Porthos kept his hand out. “Just said it was understandable.” He wiggled his fingers. “Come back to bed.”

He shook his head minutely, biting his bottom lip against the swell of guilt and anxiety in his chest. 

“You’re not sleeping on the floor for the rest of the night,” Porthos said. 

“I’m probably not going to sleep tonight, anyway.” Aramis drew his legs to his chest and rested his forehead on his knees. 

“Then at least lay on the mattress.”

He looked up through his unruly hair at Porthos’s waiting hand, and sighed. Porthos would wait until Judgment Day if he had to, and at least one of them deserved to get some rest that night. With another deep breath, he uncurled and allowed Porthos to pull him back onto the bed. Porthos arranged the covers over the both of them; Aramis flopped around a few times to get comfortable, and wound up back on his side, facing Porthos. 

It was then he was aware of how ridiculously small his double bed was. 

Still, with Porthos only inches away, and his warmth a permeable thing, Aramis felt himself relaxing. He couldn’t have been back in the woods. There had been nothing but cold and silence there, and Porthos, while sleeping, was anything but.

“Was it because of Elliott?” Porthos asked softly in the new quiet.

Aramis rubbed the side of his head into the pillow, almost like he could feel his scar if he tried hard enough without having to touch it with his fingers. “Yeah.”

Porthos had taken a psychology class or two during his collegiate career, and he remembered something about the brain working to process what it had seen or dealt with in daylight hours during the night. Aramis had just passed week three of his ten week mandatory sessions with the Garrison psychologist, Elliott Perdeauz. 

Elliott was a different sort of psychologist. When he’d first gotten the job, he’d demanded Treville send him along with a team out into the field. He wanted to understand the men he’d see in his office from their perspective. He’d done that for at least a year, and the result had been something beyond what Treville could have ever hoped for.

While most of them were still leery about having the see the department shrink, they didn’t outright try to get out of it like they had before Elliott came on staff. Elliott had seen what they had, and lived through it, too. Hell, the man had been shot on a routine drug bust, and the first thing he’d done, upon waking up in the hospital, was demand to know where the rest of the team was and if they were alright. 

Needless to say, Elliott was just as much a Musketeer as the rest of them. Moreover, he was _trusted_.

“You want to talk about it?” Porthos asked, sliding his hand across the sheet to wrap his fingers around Aramis’s where they clutched the edge of his pillow.

“No,” he whispered. “Once is – no.”

There was always the chance Aramis would change his mind, and if he did, both Porthos and Athos would listen.

They would always listen.

 

Explaining Porthos’s latest black eye to both Athos and Treville was an interesting endeavor. It had been a total accident, as far as Porthos was concerned, though Aramis still radiated guilt. 

To give him something to do, Athos sent him to the file room with a stack of manila folders and instructions to organize to his heart’s content. While Athos might have looked like he was the one with obsessive-compulsive cleaning tendencies, Aramis liked certain things neat and orderly. The file room, at times, was enough to make him twitch. 

It made Athos twitch, too, but for entirely different reasons. Namely, it was basically a glorified closet, had only one door, and no windows.

When Aramis was gone, Athos turned to Porthos and asked flatly, “What really happened?”

“He had a nightmare. I got him out of it, and he woke up swinging.” He gently touched the bruising around his eye socket. “He startles easily,” he added with a smile.

Athos had never thought he’d see the day when he wished for Aramis’s unflinching nature back in full force. The man hadn’t known how to flinch, and now he startled with every slam of a door.

There was a sound like a cannon; the windows on either side of the conference room door blew inward, and Athos ducked reflexively, pulling Porthos down with him. The glass behind them shattered, and Athos crawled along the floor to get out of the direct line of sight, reaching for the Glock at the small of his back. 

“Do I have your attention now?”

He didn’t recognize the voice, but he recognized the tone. It was the same a man used when he was at the end of his metaphorical rope and was looking to go out with a bang. 

“He’s got it,” Porthos muttered off his right shoulder, gun in hand. “What’s he going to do with it?”

“Cause as much mayhem as he can.” Athos got his feet and inched along the wall, trying to see out into the hallway. “Where’s Constance?”

“There was some sort of clusterfuck in accounts payable with Team Two, and she went to sort that out.” He snorted. “She’s up on the fifth floor, and Aramis is down on the third in the file room.”

“Do I have your fucking attention now?” the voice yelled again.

Athos poked his head around the door frame; Treville’s office was shut up, and there in the middle of the hallway, armed like he was going to single-handedly fight a war, was a man who appeared to be in his early thirties.

“Team Two’s out on a case, Team Three picked up a QCPD patrol as a favor, Team Four’s doing team-building in the pool to get a better mesh, and Team Five’s doing who the fuck knows what,” Porthos rattled off. “So it’s me and you.”

“And Aramis.” Athos shot him a look over his shoulder, eyebrow raised accordingly. 

“Right. Aramis who hasn’t touched a gun in months who’s in the file room and halfway through his mandatory psych sessions.” He shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“I’m losing my patience! There has to be somebody here!” The man put a few more bullets in the wall beside Treville’s nameplate. 

Rolling his eyes, Athos holstered his weapon. “Do you have him?”

Porthos shifted slightly. “Yeah. S’long as he doesn’t move. Why?”

Athos, with his arms raised, stepped out from the safety of the conference room into the hallway. 

“Should’ve expected that.” He adjusted his stance. “Never did have any patience with idiots.”

“Sir?” Athos, slowly and carefully, fished his badge from his back pocket. “I’m Officer de la Fere. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to the man in charge. Treville, is it?” The man brandished a piece of paper. “I’d like a word about his – about this letter!”

“Might I enquire as to what that letter is about?”

Porthos snorted. Only Athos. 

“It’s a letter saying I’m not mentally fit for the Musketeers or any other police agency,” he snarled. “This was going to be my life and a couple hours with your shrink and now I have nothing. _Nothing._ ”

“You failed the initial psych evaluations.” Statement, not question. 

“It shouldn’t matter. You’re actively recruiting. You need numbers.”

Athos winced. The man had touched on a very real, very raw wound. Yes, the Musketeers had been halved with the incident at SAVOY. Yes, Treville was actively recruiting like he hadn’t done since the Musketeers were created. Their numbers were down, and the teams that remained were being spread too thin. Athos was impressed he and Porthos hadn’t been given any assignments, though he was secretly pleased Treville could see the affect the pair of them were having on Aramis by being around the Garrison more.

Speaking of their youngest teammate, Athos would recognize that unruly head of hair anywhere. 

Aramis, armed with a Glock he’d gotten from who knew where, stood quietly in the shadows leading down the hallway toward the elevator. Athos could barely see him around the man in front of him, in line as they were with Aramis.

“There had to be a reason, Mr….” Athos trailed off.

“Peders. Joseph Peders.”

The name didn’t ring a bell for Athos, and Aramis was unnervingly focused on his target. It was a look Athos had seen hundreds of times at the shooting range, and he couldn’t help but feel immensely proud even a small portion of it was back.

His hands were steady, too, which was always a bonus when firearms were involved.

“Well, Mr. Peders,” Athos said calmly. “I cannot reverse the Captain’s decision once it has been made. His word is final.” Not entirely true in some cases, though Peders didn’t need to know that if they were going to escape without further property damage. Or loss of life.

“This was my only chance,” Peders said, leveling the gun in his other hand with Athos’s head. 

He gave Aramis the barest of head shakes; from the muffled cursing behind him and to his right, he knew Porthos had seen the signal, too. Neither of them would shoot until Athos gave the go-ahead, much like in the field.

“Only chance for what?” Athos asked, tempering his tone. 

“To get my family back. Nobody wants a husband who can’t find work because they say he’s mentally unstable.” Peders dropped the letter to rub his forehead with his other hand. “She took my kids, man. She took my kids and left the province.”

Which was very heartbreaking, but not a valid reason to storm the Musketeer Garrison with the intent to threaten his way into their ranks.

“There are more legal – and less violent – ways to go about getting your children back in your life.” He put a hand to his chest. “I used to be a lawyer. I can probably point you in the direction you need to take with your wife. But before I can do that, I need you to put your gun down, get on your knees, and lace your fingers together behind your head.”

“I don’t think so,” Peders said. “I know how that works. I do what you say and then I spend the rest of my life in prison because I trusted your word. Your word doesn’t mean shit.”

Athos heard rather than saw the reaction from Porthos, and he glanced over Peders’s shoulders at Aramis in time to see the younger man go nearly white with suppressed rage. 

“Regardless,” Athos continued. “We will be arresting you. You can do it on your own, or the best sniper the Special Investigations and Tactical Response Unit has can put a bullet in you. I won’t specify where.”

“You’ll be dead before he can pull the trigger.” Peders took a step back and changed everybody’s sightlines and angles with one small gesture.

More swearing could be heard from the conference room, and Athos took that to mean Porthos had lost whatever shot he’d had. Which left Aramis as Athos’s only form of cover.

The man hadn’t fired a gun in _weeks_. And if Peders looked as though he were going to pull the trigger on Athos, Aramis would neutralize the threat. If Aramis went for a headshot, like he was already lined up for, there was the chance he’d miss. Athos didn’t want to believe it, but the man hadn’t actively fired and hit a target in over a month. And if Aramis _did_ miss, Athos knew he usually pulled to the right. If that happened, Athos was directly in the line of fire. 

Athos watched Aramis adjust his stance and his weapon.

“One more time, Peders. On your knees, hands behind your head. Now.”

The elevator arrived on their floor with a ding; Athos threw himself toward Peders. Two gunshots went off, one right after the other. Peders’s shot went wide, burying itself into the wall, and the man who had fired it went down in a heap with a cry of pain, Aramis’s bullet through his right shoulder. Athos added insult to injury by pinning the wounded man to the floor. Porthos barreled out from the conference room, and Aramis put himself between the suspect and the people in the elevator. One of whom was Treville.

“He shot me!” Peders howled as Athos handcuffed him. “He shot me!”

“It’s not like we didn’t warn you,” Porthos said, hauling the man roughly to his feet. “Be thankful he didn’t shoot you in the head.”

Treville stepped aside for Porthos to escort their latest collar into the elevator, and looked at Aramis. “Where did you get that?”

“It’s my backup,” he said, arms hanging loose at his side though his knuckles were white around the butt of the gun.

Treville placed a gentle hand on the side of his neck, looked him in the eye, and said softly, “Well done, lad. Well done.” He squeezed lightly, held the contact for the few seconds it took for the message to sink in, and then retreated to his office without another word. 

Athos searched Aramis’s face intently as he closed the short distance between them. There was a tightness around his eyes and mouth, and Athos rested his hand between Aramis’s twitching shoulder blades. 

The shakes started at his toes and worked their way up. Aramis handed him the gun grip first in order to lean forward and rest his hands on his thighs. 

“Breathe, Aramis,” Athos commanded quietly. “You need to breathe. In and out.”

He sucked in the requisite gulps of air harshly through his nose, and let them out through his mouth with a soft keening sound. 

“We’re safe,” he continued in the same low tone of voice. “Treville is safe. You did good, Aramis.”

His breathing had mostly leveled back into something resembling a normal rhythm when Porthos returned. The big man immediately came close, using his body to bracket Aramis between himself and Athos, and buried his fingers in Aramis’s unruly curls.

Aramis finally straightened, relaxing between the two of them with a ragged sigh. 

This time, when Athos handed Aramis the gun to slide back into the holster concealed at the small of his back, Aramis’s fingers didn’t tremble. He put the safety on with quick, sure movements, and Athos noticed something different about his bearing. Something that had eased the tension in his shoulders and gave him the idea that maybe, just maybe, the three of them would make it through this after all.

“Well,” Aramis said, reaching out to pick at a bullet hole in the wallpaper. “Whoever said Mondays suck was _clearly_ never a Musketeer.”

“Nosies on not filling out the paperwork,” Porthos said, touching his finger to his nose.

Aramis all but slapped himself in the face to do the same; Athos rolled his eyes, and said, “Fine, but one of you is going to explain to Constance why there is a bullet hole in her desk.”

They turned in unison to stare at the wooden monstrosity Constance called a desk. Athos started in the direction of the break room for another cup of coffee – the insurance claim forms alone were going to be hell – and waited for it.

“Maybe she won’t notice,” Porthos said, following their team leader down the hallway. 

“Oh, right, because bullet holes aren’t really all that noticeable.” Aramis paused, ran his fingers through his hair, and stopped in the doorway to the break room. His face lit up, the way it usually did when his brain supplied him with a proverbial light bulb moment worthy of a Nobel Prize. He launched into a long-winded explanation of the reasoning they’d give Constance, and Athos listened to him chatter away like a magpie. 

Yes, he mused fondly, leaning against the counter so he could watch Aramis’s excited hand motions, the three of them would be just fine.

 

 **Three Months Later**  
Constance was very rarely, if ever, late to work. She’d been raised that if one had a job, and they were required to be there at a certain time each day, then one had damn well better show up. Granted, shit happened, but for the most part she was on time, if not early, each day to the Garrison.

She sat down at her desk, so intent on catching up with the paperwork already on her keyboard she didn’t notice anything else. The top form required only her signature – everything else was filled out correctly for once, a near miracle – and she reached for a pen from the holder only to have her fingers close on air. 

The chipped, QCPD mug Sergeant DuBois had sent as a small gift to her for her brief undercover stint as a prostitute for one of their joint cases was empty of pens. 

“What the hell,” she muttered. She’d put a brand new box into there the other day. No way had she used them all in such a short amount of time. 

She looked around her desk, thinking they had accidentally gotten dumped all over the place, when she finally noticed it. There, sitting bold as brass on top of her day planner book, were three figurines made entirely of binder clips. 

If she wasn’t looking at it, she might not have believed it. She bet if she looked in her desk drawer for a box of paperclips she wouldn’t find the new one she’d gotten out of the supply closet on the second floor. 

Grinning madly, Constance left the figurines where they stood as the elevator dinged. A rather disheveled Athos shuffled past her, balancing a stack of manila folders in one hand, a large coffee in the other, and a Tim Horton’s bakery bag between his teeth. He gave her a nod as he passed her desk, and while she waited for her computer to boot up, she peered down the short hallway toward the conference room. 

Sure enough, the moment Athos stepped fully into the doorway, he was pelted between the eyes with a paperclip. The Tim Horton’s bag dropped to the floor and he did an odd half-step or four to avoid stepping on his breakfast. Gravity got the better of the file folders, and he juggled them awkwardly while trying to keep his coffee upright. 

Constance waited. 

The next paperclip caught him in the ear. 

“I swear to God, Aramis,” Athos said in the same tone of voice he used for unruly drug dealers who didn’t know when to stop resisting arrest. 

She couldn’t hear what Aramis responded with, but she could see the change in Athos’s body language. She also saw the third and seemingly final paperclip lodge itself in Athos’s hair. 

Athos let the rest of the folders drop to the floor, and, clutching his coffee, stalked into the conference room. There a scuffling sound, a thud, and then the high cackle Aramis only made if he was tickled in just the right place. There were more thuds, and Porthos’s deep voice rumbled into the hallway, though the words were indistinct. 

_Ah,_ she thought as she settled into her chair again and pulled up her email. _Business as usual._


End file.
